


Chemistry and Crooked Shelves

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Backstory, Books, Chiplock, Chipperlock, Chippers, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, One Night Stands, Putting up shelves, Sweet/Hot, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 18:38:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5795554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is curious about the books the rather attractive fish-and-chips man is reading. It leads to a dinner invitation that turns into something more.</p><p>(I've always been curious about what Sherlock meant by saying, "I helped him put up some shelves." Here's one take on what might have happened with Chippers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chemistry and Crooked Shelves

Sherlock hadn’t meant for it to happen. But it did, and here they were in the cozy little flat with old furniture, kissing slowly, open-mouthed, a nearly empty bottle of cheap red wine at their feet. There were tools littered about, the newly hung shelves empty and waiting to hold the stacks of books that teetered precariously against the wall.

The books. That was his downfall, Sherlock thought foggily, his lips crushing against the heat of an insistent mouth. He normally wouldn’t have looked twice at the man he was now practically devouring if it wasn’t for the damn books that had been propped open on the counter at the fish and chip shop.

And normally Sherlock didn’t care about food, mere fuel for his brain, but on rare occasions he craved salty chips and the tang of vinegar, something warm and crisp and comforting before heading home to a cold and empty flat.

There was a little fish shop just off the Marylebone Road, small and clean and well lit, that he entered on an impulse one rainy night. The man behind the counter was a year or two younger than himself -- lean with warm brown skin, angular features, physically attractive, a graceful ease to his movements -- details Sherlock would have noted as a matter of course and simply moved on, but then the books by the man’s elbow caught his eye. Organic Chemistry and Dicken’s _Great Expectations._ An odd combination.

“You’re studying chemistry,” Sherlock found himself stating the obvious, curiosity getting the better of him.

The man glanced at the books, smiled. “Yeah, when I’m not working here.”

“And the Dickens?”

“Oh, that’s just for me. I like a change of pace.”

Sherlock dimly remembered being forced to watch a Dickens play at school about ghosts and Christmas and redemption. Utter nonsense. “I’d stick to the chemistry,” he advised, pulling off his gloves.

“Not a fan of the classics, I take it,” the man picked up a pen and order pad as he spoke. “What do you like reading, then?”

Sherlock smiled a bit darkly. “True crime.”

Over the next two weeks Sherlock returned several times, learning through observation and unabashed eavesdropping three key things: the man’s name (Desta), that he owned the shop with his older brother, and that he constantly had a new book in rotation -- fiction, history, even poetry, once -- to offset the organic chemistry. Sherlock found this wild ranging across subject matter strangely intriguing.

Desta struck up a conversation one evening when he noticed Sherlock scratching out chemical formulas on a napkin. At first Desta merely glanced over Sherlock’s shoulder, then he stared intently. He looked more closely at Sherlock. “I didn’t peg you for a chemist.”

“Graduate chemist, actually,” Sherlock answered dryly without looking up, his pen still moving. “ _And_ consulting detective.” He glanced up, momentarily curious again. “What did you peg me for?”

“I don’t know. Eccentric academic type. Or starving artist.”

“Hmm. Better than some things I’ve been called.”

Desta nodded carefully. “And what’s that you’re working on?” he asked, indicating the marks on the napkin.

“Trying to identify a compound found at a crime scene. It’s quite unusual.”

That exchange unexpectedly turned into a late drink at a cafe and a detailed discussion of chemistry and forensics. Desta revealed that he had started university several years later than he’d intended to, his schooling delayed by his father’s sudden death. He was contemplating going on to medical school, maybe even pathology, and peppered Sherlock with questions.

For his part, Sherlock rather enjoyed having an eager audience and someone who could grasp the finer points of his work. And Desta was not particularly burdensome to listen to. Or look at. Not in the least.

They met several more times, Desta always ready with questions. Sherlock found him to be quite bright, his intellect wasted helping customers at the shop. Sherlock offered to put him in touch with Mike Stamford, who might know of a job in a laboratory where he could at least get some relevant experience while he went to school. Within a week Mike had passed along a position he’d heard about at another hospital lab, and Desta was hired.

“Come over Saturday night. I’ll make you dinner,” Desta offered as a way of thanks the next time he saw Sherlock.

Sherlock hesitated.

“I’ve been told I’m a good cook,” Desta said temptingly.

Sherlock hadn’t committed, and had, in fact, intended to decline, but then -- at loose ends, his own fridge empty, no case on -- he found himself rapping on the door to Desta’s flat on Saturday evening.

Desta answered the door, all smiles, wearing a white button-down shirt and dark jeans that emphasized his lithe frame. The flat was tiny, currently filled with the enticingly complex scent of ginger, garlic, onions, chili pepper, and other spices Sherlock couldn’t place but that made his mouth water.

He was, Sherlock realized while removing his scarf, hungrier than he thought. He glanced at the stacks of books on the floor. An unorganized mix of chemistry, biology, modern literature, classics, history, and a smattering of other subjects.

“My brother said to give you his thanks,” Desta announced, handing Sherlock a glass of red wine before turning back to the stove. “He says I should have left the shop a long time ago, and that I should go on to medical school. He thinks you convinced me to make a change.” Desta stirred the ingredients in the pan and shrugged to himself. “Maybe you did.”

Sherlock stared at the back of Desta’s neck, weighing the implications of the comment. He chose something safe to say. “I’m surprised your brother remembers me.”

“Oh, you’re memorable. No worries about that. And we both agreed that you'll get extra portions whenever you come to the shop,” Desta looked over his shoulder at Sherlock with a sly smile. “Feed you up a bit, the starving artist.”

Sherlock felt his face flush. Not sure how to respond to that remark either, he let it pass, his eyes traveling instead to the far wall where a half-finished project stood out in stark relief.

Desta glanced back again and followed his gaze to the tools on the floor and the metal brackets drilled into the wall. He sighed. “I know, I need to finish putting up those shelves. But it’s a two-person job, really.”

And that was how, after dinner and several large drinks, Sherlock found himself with his sleeves rolled up, standing on tip-toe, trying to slot one end of a shelf into place, Desta holding the other end, the rough red wine going to their heads, reducing them to giggles at their lopsided attempts to hang the shelves until they finally managed to finish the job.

They collapsed onto the tatty sofa to assess their handiwork.

“It's really not level,” Sherlock critiqued, scrutinizing the shelves.

“It’s fine. I don't fancy things being perfectly straight, anyway,” Desta said, catching Sherlock’s eye. It was when Desta’s smile slowly settled into something more serious that Sherlock fully acknowledged his meaning. There was an instant change in the atmosphere.

He held Desta’s gaze, taking in the rich brown of his eyes, the coppery sheen of his skin in the low light. It wouldn’t be wise to start something. He wasn’t looking for -- Desta suddenly leaned in, and when his mouth descended over his, it was a surprise, but not a shocking one. Sherlock had been aware of the current between them, which he’d intentionally ignored, but then this decisive action, this swift kiss that was firm and not too rushed and ended with a soft pull on his lower lip that made his eyes close in brief surrender… well, that was worth a second thought.

They broke apart, Desta’s fingers curved along Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock breathed in the heady fragrance of spices lingering in the room, the taste of wine still on his lips, considering his choices.

There was no case to attend to, no reason he couldn’t allow an exception to his usual rule of abstinence. He liked the feel of Desta’s hands on him, liked this cozy flat overflowing with books, liked the thought of sliding off the other man’s shirt to see what lay beneath. But to be fair…

“I’m not...” Sherlock began, always dreading this part, but opting for directness, “...interested in a relationship.”

“No, I didn’t think so,” Desta answered softly, not drawing away.

They read each other’s expressions, saw a mutual desire for more, no expectations beyond the evening. His decision made, wise or not, he slowly pressed into Desta, his hands sliding behind his neck, tilting his mouth up for another deep snog.

Sherlock eventually let his hands trail down Desta’s back and along his waist, feeling the musculature, surmising that he was a runner, solid, efficient, trim. Curious, he slid a palm around Desta’s thigh. Rock hard. Oh, this was going to be interesting.

The undoing of shirts was nearly simultaneous, practically in sync, button by downward button, the urge to go quickly tempered by the suspense of going slow, their progress interspersed with teasing interludes of rough kisses and soft bites on necks, sussing out who might be more assertive, who more compliant. It wasn’t yet clear.

Shirts finally off, they folded closer together, a pretty contrast of pale chest against dark, both narrow waisted, high-cheek boned, almond-eyed. The sofa was small, seemingly becoming smaller as they shifted knees and elbows, necks bending to accommodate mouths against exposed skin, shoulders cramping uncomfortably against the rigid arm of the sofa.

“Wait,” Desta pulled gently away, rolled to his feet, held out a hand. After a moment Sherlock took it, letting Desta pull him up. Desta hooked two fingers beneath the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, tugging him toward the other side of the room.

He stopped at the side of the bed, his hands going to the button of Sherlock’s trousers, hesitating a beat, making sure he should go on. He held Sherlock’s gaze as his fingers slid the button free, then worked down the zipper.

Sherlock noted the sensation of fabric skimming down and over his hips to pool at his feet before his own fingers found the fly of Desta’s jeans, and he was suddenly kissing him again while thumbing open buttons and pushing down stiff denim, freeing the soft skin beneath.

They stepped out of the mounds of clothes, hands roaming, mouths wandering, legs buckling down to the bed, Sherlock on top, his lanky frame stretched over Desta’s, their faces close together.

Desta closed a hand around their erections, small sounds of pleasure escaping their throats at the first few touches. Desta’s fingers were long, but Sherlock’s were longer, and he couldn’t help but snake his hand beneath Desta’s, wrapping them tighter together.

Desta’s hand drifted away as Sherlock stroked and their hips rolled, mouths dipping close, breaths coming out in small huffs, hands gripping ass or thigh or wherever they could gain hold. Sherlock jerked his fist, their brows furrowing in focused pleasure, until a gasp, first one, then the other, heat spurting across their bellies and trickling over fingers.

Panting softly, they disentangled their legs and laid on their backs, staring blankly at the ceiling, temporarily sated.

Desta finally turned his head to Sherlock's profile. “You're welcome to stay, if you want…”

Sherlock turned and met his gaze. He made another decision. “I’ve nowhere else to be,” he answered, dropping two fingers to Desta’s chest, following the slope of a pectoral muscle. “But just this one night.”

“If you say so.”

Thinking back on it later, Sherlock recalled a light sleep, a gradual awakening to lips on the back of his neck and a hardness pressing low against the dip of his back, hands on waists and lips against shoulders, a dreamlike rhythm of moving together, and again at 4 in the morning, half-waking, loose-limbed, desirous, feasting before a self-imposed famine, tracing the curve of a spine caught in the dim light.

The sun had to come up, as it always did. They drank strong coffee and ate toast in bed, not speaking but without awkwardness.

They showered together, white suds against water-darkened skin, gentle fingertips, no promises. Sherlock dressed, raked his fingers through his hair, took a deep breath. Time to go.

Desta watched as he put on his coat and scarf. They looked at each other for a moment.

“Here.” Desta finally said, holding out a book. “For you.”

Sherlock took the heavy book, then recognized it. _Great Expectations._ The title really suited Desta -- a future doctor, a caretaker -- much better than him. Just as he knew someone else would suit Desta much better than he ever could. A shimmer of regret passed through him, but he smiled anyway. “I'll never read this."

Desta smiled back. “You never know.”

Sherlock tilted the cover so the sun glinted off the gilded letters. "Thank you."

Desta walked him to the door, held it open as he watched Sherlock leave down the hallway. "Don't forget,” he called after him after a few moments, “extra portions, anytime you're hungry."

Sherlock paused and looked back over his shoulder, considering the offer. "I'll remember."


End file.
